


Upsetting the Apple Cart

by myshkins



Category: Mad Men, The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Crossover, Gen, McLennon is very vaguely implied, Mild Language, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 04:53:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29504403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myshkins/pseuds/myshkins
Summary: A jolt of recognition struck Don as he looked at the two agitated men. All at once, he felt all the outrageous weirdness of his situation: he was trapped in a bathroom with John Lennon and Paul McCartney, enveloped in an acrid psychedelic haze.--It's 1968, and Don learns that the Beatles are interested in an advertising campaign for their new record label, Apple Records. Don jumps at the chance to make the illustrious pop stars new clients of SCDP. However, things don't go quite according to plan.
Relationships: Joan Holloway/Roger Sterling, John Lennon/Paul McCartney, Megan Calvet/Don Draper, Peggy Olson/Stan Rizzo
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	Upsetting the Apple Cart

**Author's Note:**

> In May of 1968, John Lennon and Paul McCartney traveled to New York to promote their new company, Apple Corps, along with its accompanying record label, Apple Records. They held a press conference on the 14th, did several interviews during the day, and appeared on The Tonight Show in the evening. Paul later admitted to experiencing a "personal paranoia" on this occasion, caused both by taking too many drugs and his intense anxiety surrounding the Beatles' new business venture. 
> 
> I always loved the Beatles-related moments in Mad Men and the missed opportunities for real-life celebrity "cameos," like Paul Newman, The Rolling Stones, etc. I decided to mix the historical and the fictional to see what might have happened if the Beatles actually had sought out American advertising agencies during this interesting time for them (there is no evidence that this ever happened). The result is this weirdness that has been very fun to write so far! Enjoy! :)

_Tuesday, May 14, 1968_

“Good morning, Mr. Draper,” Dawn said in her usual cheerful way, rising from her desk as her boss approached. Don greeted her in his characteristic polite, yet distant manner. As usual, he was late, but it hadn’t been entirely his fault this morning. Sally had stayed with them last night so that she and Megan could go see some off-Broadway show. Betty had been late picking up Sally and hadn’t made any attempt to apologize for keeping him from the office. Don supposed this was Betty’s petty revenge for the many times he had been tardy or absent over the years, but it had still made him bristle. He had almost slammed the apartment door behind them when they left. Thankfully, he had restrained himself.

“Dawn, get the Jaguar team in here. And I’ll have some coffee.”

“Of course, Mr. Draper, but there’s a call waiting for you. A Mr. Derek Taylor?”

“Who is he?”

“Actually, I’m not sure. I think he has an English accent.”

“Did you ask what it’s regarding?”

“I did,” Dawn said apologetically, “but I couldn’t get anything out of him. It seemed like he had a confidential matter to discuss with you.”

Don frowned. He couldn’t remember talking to any Englishmen at all recently. What stranger could have a confidential matter to discuss with him? Could it be something to do with Lane? Had his embezzlement become known, somehow? Don felt the momentary prick of conscience that accompanied each thought associated with his former partner, but pushed it back down under the surface.

“All right, I’ll take it. Get the team first, then coffee.”

“Yes, Mr. Draper.”

Don set down his briefcase and took off his coat. Being preoccupied as he was with servicing Jaguar, which primarily meant appeasing the head slime ball himself, Herb Rennet, Don had little time or patience for strangers calling out of the blue to discuss God knows what. Still, the worry that this call somehow had to do with Lane continued to hover half-formed in his consciousness. He picked up the receiver.

“This is Don,” he said, and felt pleased that his confident tone belied his worry.

_“Good morning, Mr. Draper, this is Derek Taylor, press officer for Apple Corps. Do you have a moment?”_

The voice was pleasant, smooth, with a distinct English accent.

“What can I help you with, Mr. Taylor?”

_“Well, I would have explained to your secretary, but I have some rather sensitive information that I would prefer not to disseminate. You may know that John Lennon and Paul McCartney of the Beatles are currently in New York to promote their new company and record label?”_

“Oh...No, I didn’t know that,” Don said, his body relaxing slightly with relief, then shifting forward with curiosity.

He looked up at the sound of his office door swinging open.

“Why are you looking at my ass, anyway?” Stan said loudly to Ginsberg as the two men barged in.

“Sometimes it’s hard not to, the way you lean over the table. It’s like you want me to look at it.”

Don glared at them as they sat down. Taylor continued, oblivious, as Dawn brought in Don’s coffee and set it on his desk.

_“Mr. McCartney in particular has expressed an interest in an American advertising campaign for their label, Apple Records. Creative directors from several different firms, yourself included, are being invited to attend an informal gathering this afternoon at the Americana Hotel, after their press conference.”_

“I see,” Don said. “Are they expecting any work, or a presentation?” He glanced up and saw Ginsberg crossing his sneaker-clad feet on the coffee table.

_“Oh no, no presentation will be necessary. It’s more of an exploratory meeting. Can we expect you?”_

“I’ll be there.”

 _“Excellent. That’s the Americana Hotel, 155 West 47 th Street, Suite 208, four o’clock._ _Your name will be on the list. Be warned: there may be some commotion outside, but there will be plenty of security. Just show your card at the door.”_

“I understand. Thank you, Mr. Taylor.”

_“You’re very welcome. Goodbye.”_

“Goodbye.”

Don sat absorbed in thought after he hung up the receiver, Stan and Ginsberg’s chatter reaching him as if from far away. _The Beatles_. This could be huge—beyond anything he had attempted so far. Not in terms of money, though having the world’s most popular music group as a client certainly promised some financial advantages. The Beatles and the culture they helped birth represented youth, idealism, and hope. Don knew that if he could tap into that, he could create something that no one in advertising had yet conceived of. But this meeting...how many creative directors had they invited? And who was going to be there? Ted Chaough, who had been doggedly at his heels lately and wouldn’t let him forget it? He pensively sipped his coffee.

“Well, boss, I think we came up with a few different ways to say ‘a Jaguar is a gorgeous plaything that can do anything but make your toes curl,’” Stan said with a smirk, tossing a pile of his drawings on Don’s desk.

“Hey, don’t be so sure,” Ginsberg said. “Some people have strange proclivities. But I guess Stan knows that from personal experience.”

“You just admitted to looking at my ass!”

“Okay, enough,” Don said sharply, his patience wearing thin. “Something came up. We’re going to have to reschedule the meeting with Jaguar. Take some more time and give me your two best ideas.”

“Yes, sir,” Stan said with a mock salute. He picked up the pile of papers and walked out, Ginsberg behind.

Don briefly considered telling someone about the call, but what was there to tell? There wasn’t even a real meeting yet. Just an “informal gathering,” whatever that meant. He had no idea how serious they were, and he would have been offended by the fact that other creative directors had also been invited, were it a less illustrious potential client. Don had no idea what to expect, which both unsettled and intrigued him. Leaning back in his chair, he realized that he had some research to do before four o’clock.

*

Don sat in the back of a lurching cab, feeling less prepared for the meeting than he had hoped. Without letting on what it was about, he had asked Dawn to go out on her lunch break and buy the Beatles’ latest album and anything she could find on the news stands about the group’s new record label. It had occurred to Don that Megan could give him some information; she listened to all the hip new music groups and had a pulse on the youth scene. These days, however, talking to Megan about anything to do with work was just another reminder of her rejection of an advertising career, from which Don had yet to heal. If he dwelled on it too long, a sense of dread began to envelop him, from which a bottle proved his only escape.

Dawn had returned after an hour with a record called _Magical Mystery Tour_ and three newspapers, none of which included any extensive coverage of Lennon and McCartney’s new business venture or their visit to New York. _The New York Times_ had a few sentences about the founding of Apple Corps, along with a small photograph of the two men. It was helpfully captioned for those few people who, like Don, had not been bombarded with photographs of “those four youngsters from Liverpool” and could not tell one Beatle from another.

The album had been more revealing, but frustratingly puzzling. Don had listened to it while lying on the couch in his office, eyes closed, glass of rye whiskey in hand. By turns psychedelic, nostalgic, acerbic, lyrical, and nonsensical, he wasn’t sure what to make of it. The final track, “All You Need Is Love,” had struck him as the most direct, the most universal: the most suited for an ad. The image that stuck with him, however, was that of the “fool on the hill” whose eyes “see the world spinning ‘round...”

The Americana was only six blocks from the Time-Life Building. A small crowd gathered on the sidewalk and spilling into the street signaled their arrival. Don paid the driver and stepped onto the pavement, looking for a way through the crush of reporters, photographers, and fans on the sidewalk. He managed to push his way through to the front door of the hotel and showed his card to one of the security guards, who let him pass.

The halls of the Americana were quiet, but a heightened sense of bustle and activity revealed the presence of pop royalty somewhere in the building. Another security guard asked for Don’s credentials, but was quickly satisfied. He pointed him down a hallway to the right, where he could hear the low hum of muffled conversation. Several long-haired men and glamorous-looking women stood outside the door to the suite. They were surrounded by clouds of cigarette smoke. For a moment, Don thought that his primary target might be among them. However, seeing no signs of the ingratiating behavior that always accompanies celebrity, he passed them and entered the room.

Here, the smoke was even more dense. The first thing to catch his eye was a striking pyramid whimsically constructed of Granny Smith apples and perched on a white round table—a display clearly in honor of Apple Corps. Several armchairs and a sofa were arranged in the center of the room. Sitting on one of the sofas, he immediately recognized Ted Chaough and Frank Gleason, who were talking conspiratorially, mouth to ear. Don reluctantly approached them.

“Ted, Frank, how are you?”

“Don! I can’t say I’m surprised to see you here,” Ted said with a good-natured smile. “Though I have to admit, I was hoping you wouldn’t show up.”

Don smiled.

“Nice to see you, too, Ted.” He looked around the room. There were a number of people standing around, all of them obviously waiting for the guests of honor.

“Any sign of Lennon and McCartney?” Don asked.

“Not yet. I was starting to worry this was just some kind of prank on us small agencies by one of the big boys.”

“You mean it’s just us?”

“So far. Though that could change.”

Don was surprised. He had thought the greatest music group in the world would be attracted to the largest, most prolific agencies in New York. Their interest in SCDP and CGC seemed to speak to an interest in good, provocative creative. Don was pleased, and he felt his investment in the opportunity growing, but he didn’t like the idea of a bake-off against Ted and Frank. Don felt an overwhelming desire to get away from them, now that he knew they were his competition.

“Do you know where the restroom is around here?” he asked.

“No idea,” said Ted, “but if you go wandering around now, you might miss them. It’s nearly 4:30.”

“They probably love to keep people waiting.”

“Okay, then. It’s your funeral, Don,” Ted laughed, shaking his head.

Don walked off in search of the bathroom. He spotted a narrow hallway off to the right, and, deciding it looked promising, continued along it. Soon, he came upon two mini-skirt-clad young women standing impatiently outside what appeared to be the restroom. One knocked insistently on the door, waited a few moments, then began to bang on it.

“Come on, get out of there already! Someone has to piss out here!” she shouted.

“What’s going on here?” Don asked.

“We’ve been waiting here for twenty minutes. It’s ridiculous!”

Don knocked on the door. He was met with silence.

“Hey, come out of there!” he said, knocking louder.

The door opened a crack, and a tall, towering figure in horn-rimmed glasses was suddenly regarding Don from the other side. Don heard muffled voices from inside the bathroom. The large man’s face disappeared for a moment as he turned away, saying something to whoever was inside. He then motioned with a wave of his hand for Don to enter, holding a finger to his lips. Don hesitated, unsure of what he was about to see. The vague benevolent expression on the man’s face—what little of it he could see through the crack in the door—made him decide to comply. He quickly slipped through the doorway, to the protesting cries of the women outside. The man in the glasses immediately locked the door behind him.

The pungent smell of marijuana rolled over Don like an ocean wave. To his relief, no one was injured or dying. At first glance, the scene before him was thoroughly mundane. The large man stood off to the side, next to another man with round wire-rimmed glasses and long hair, who was leaning against the sink. He wore a tan suit jacket over a black vest and white turtleneck and radiated a restless, volatile energy. He looked at Don with interest. Across from him stood a slim, dark-haired figure in a black suit jacket, white shirt, and vibrant tie. His facial features were incredibly delicate, his refined brow furrowed with anger, eyes wide with surprise. He held a joint in one hand, and gestured toward Don with the other.

“What the fuck, Mal? What did you let him in for?” he hissed. His face looked strained, as if he were barely remaining composed.

“We need some help. I’m not leaving you two alone in here, and this guy looks the part,” the large man said, gesturing to Don with an entreaty in his eyes.

“I’m sorry, what’s going on here?” Don asked impatiently, looking from one man to another. A disorienting and helpless sense of being dragged into something he had not bargained for overwhelmed him, and he regretted involving himself.

“I’m Mal,” said the large man, with a nervous, but genuine smile. “This is John,” he said, nodding toward the long-haired man, “and this is Paul,” he added, indicating his companion, who was beginning to look more and more on edge. A jolt of recognition struck Don as he looked at the two agitated men. All at once, he felt all the outrageous weirdness of his situation: he was trapped in a bathroom with John Lennon and Paul McCartney, enveloped in an acrid psychedelic haze.

John gave Don a jerky mock salute, while Paul stared straight ahead and continued smoking, not looking at any of them.

“Paul’s not feeling well,” Mal explained, “and we need to find a way to get him and John out of the hotel without being seen. I was hoping you could help us.”

“Why can’t you just go and explain the situation?” Don asked. “Just tell everyone that the meeting is canceled.”

“Well, we don’t want anyone seeing us leaving the lavatory full of pot smoke, for a start,” John quipped, looking at Don with a heavy gaze from behind his round glasses. “And this one,” he continued, jerking his head in Paul’s direction, “doesn’t want the press to know that he’s...ahem... _indisposed_.” On this last word, John’s voice took on a sneering posh affectation. Paul gave John a disgruntled look, but said nothing. Don thought he seemed unwell: pale and a little green.

“Paul, maybe you should quit smoking that, mate,” Mal said in a concerned voice.

“No, it usually helps me,” Paul said uncertainly. He swayed slightly on the spot for a moment, then took a staggering step backward and sank down on the toilet, his hands shaking slightly as he ran his fingers through his hair. Don saw twin looks of concern flash over John and Mal’s faces. John stepped toward his partner and put his hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, Paul, are you all right?” he said, tenderness softening his voice.

“I think so...I dunno...I think—I need to get out of here. It’s hard...to breathe.” Paul’s breaths were quick and slightly shuddering, like a child taking gulping breaths between sobs. His eyes remained downcast, avoiding meeting theirs. Another flurry of knocking sounded on the door.

“Just hold on, mate. You’ll be all right. Just breathe,” John said, giving Paul’s shoulder a squeeze. He turned to Don, his eyes flashing. “Well, are you gonna help us out here, or what? He needs fresh air!”

“What can I do?”

“Get the people outside here to clear off, then go find Derek Taylor and tell him what’s happening,” Mal said. “Then come back here. We’ll try to sneak these two out the back. John and I will look after Paul in the meantime.” Mal gave Don a brief description of Taylor’s appearance while John busied himself with his partner, splashing some cold water on his face and hovering over him.

Don tentatively opened the bathroom door to find that the line of people waiting outside had grown. The two girls in mini-skirts had been joined by what seemed to be a couple of members of the press: one a large man in a cheap suit with a shiny bald forehead, the other a diminutive young photographer in a black turtleneck with a mass of dark curls.

“What the hell is going on in here?” the large older man shouted. “First those greasy longhairs don’t show up, now somebody’s locked themselves in the toilet? Junkies, am I right?”

“I’m sorry for the inconvenience, sir, but this restroom is out of order. I’m sure the staff at the front desk can point you to a different one,” Don replied coolly.

The man shook his head, pointing a large finger up nonsensically up towards the ceiling.

“I tell ya, as soon as _those people_ show up in this city, all hell breaks loose. Damn hippies. Junkies and criminals, all of ‘em.”

“Yes, hippies are responsible for clogging this particular toilet to inconvenience you, personally,” Don said, making no effort to hide his glacial scorn. He stood with this arms folded, silent and rigid as stone. The bald man stood stewing for a few moments, then finally turned and strode down the hall. The young photographer followed, and the two young women trailed behind, stealing several glances backward. Don waited a few seconds before going back to the main room to find Taylor.

It was much more crowded and noisy now. Don saw several young people being marched off by security and wondered how they had gotten in. It reminded him of that hot, muggy August night at Shea Stadium. Don could barely even see what was happening on the stage, but he had seen the young men and women sprinting past the police barriers and onto the field just to be near their idols. They were all carried off in the end, kicking and screaming, but Don imagined them bragging to their friends later: “I made it onto the field. I’m sure they saw me!”

He and Sally had ended up near second base, perpendicular to the high platform on which the Beatles performed. The identical bouncing black-and-tan figures had seemed incredibly small and distant, like miniatures. They were surrounded by a few plane engines’ worth of deafening screams on three sides, and Don thought his earplugs might give out. Sally had been screaming right along with the multitude, waving, jumping up and down. Don had wondered then: where did the great power of these young men come from, and what could it be capable of?

Don finally spotted Derek Taylor surrounded by a crowd of the press, looking harried. He had dark hair and a mustache and an angular, attractive face. Don heard snippets of what he was repeating to the clamoring suits around him:

“Mr. Lennon and Mr. McCartney have been delayed, but I’m sure they’ll arrive very soon. They will be prepared to answer all of your questions. Yes, they are scheduled to be on _The Tonight Show_ this evening. No, I’m afraid I can’t say when all four of The Beatles will return to New York. There are no plans for a tour in the near future...”

Don forced himself into the sweating mob and was met with several disgruntled outbursts. When he reached Taylor, who was listening to a question by yet another reporter, he brazenly interrupted, grabbing and firmly shaking Taylor’s hand. He spoke loudly and energetically.

“Mr. Taylor, Don Draper from Sterling Cooper Draper Pryce. We spoke on the phone this morning. I’m sorry to interrupt, but I have an urgent matter to discuss with you right away.” Taylor looked surprised for a moment, looking from Don to the men surrounding them, then gave a brisk nod and followed Don to a nearby corner.

“Thank God,” Taylor said when they were alone. “You’ve rescued me, you know,” Taylor laughed drily, though he sobered quickly when Don’s expression remained grim. “What is it? Is this about John and Paul?”

“Paul is sick. He and John and”—it took Don a second to remember the tall man’s name—“Mal are locked in the bathroom. I’m going to go back there and help them get him out without being seen. You stay here and handle the press.” Don happened to glance over Taylor’s shoulder and made eye contact with Ted Chaough, who gave him a long, curious look, as if to say _“I know you’re up to something, and I’m going to find out what it is.”_

“Christ. Is he all right?” Derek asked anxiously.

“Yes. I think he just had a little too much... _to drink_.”

Derek raised his eyebrows, mouthed “oh,” and nodded, and Don knew that he had gotten his true meaning across: that McCartney was stoned out of his mind.

“Well, thank you so much for your help, Don. I’ll get this side of things taken care of. Good luck,” he said warmly, and turned to brave the rabble once again.

Don turned away and walked quickly back the way he had come, but was stopped in his tracks when Ted suddenly blocked his path. Don’s rival smiled his usual disarming smile, but with a perceptive and merciless gleam in his eyes. Don would have simply kept walking, but he didn’t want to risk leading Ted right to Paul and John and blow their cover. He stopped and tried to assume an artless demeanor, but it was too late. He had been caught.

“What are you up to, Don?” Ted said in a near sing-song. “I didn’t know you and Mr. Taylor were already acquainted. Where are you off to? I thought you could introduce me.”

“I need to take a leak. Do you want to watch me do that, too?” Don retorted, losing some composure and feeling that he may have gone too far, but no longer caring. Ted laughed. If he was offended, he hid it well.

“Really, again? You ought to see a doctor about that,” Ted said with affected concern. “Well, I’ll leave you to it, then. Give Roger my love, will you?” Ted smiled and walked away, looking pleased that he had successfully rattled the man he was continually striving to overtake.

Don felt the drumming of his heart slow with relief as he hurried on, hoping that all was well in the bathroom.

*

When Mal let Don in, John had his hand on Paul’s back as he sat on the floor in front of the toilet, his head to one side, propped on the seat. Don felt a strange pang: a combination of embarrassment on Paul’s behalf, and the sting of pity you feel for a sick child. He turned away from the uncomfortable sight and looked at Mal.

“Derek’s taking care of things as we speak. We should probably wait a few minutes before we go,” Don said. “How is he?”

“Well, as you can see, not too well. But this should run its course soon,” Mal said with a calm voice and a smile. Don got the sense that Mal was the best possible person to have on hand at a time like this.

Paul lifted up his head and gingerly turned himself around to face forward. His eyes were red and staring, his face still pale, though he looked less queasy. His arms and legs trembled slightly.

“Hey, Macca,” John said softly, his right arm encircling Paul from behind. “How are you feeling?”

“All right,” Paul said. “I need something to drink. Mouth’s fucking dry.”

“Well, we got nothin’ for you to drink out of. You’ll have to drink out of the tap.”

John helped his partner up from the floor and would have helped him to the sink, but Paul waved him off, nearly losing his balance. John threw up his hands dramatically and pretended to take offense at Paul’s rebuff, eliciting a small tremulous smile from his friend. Paul turned on the tap and put his lips to the stream of cold water, drinking greedily. As he rinsed his face, Don was struck again by the absurdity of the situation in which he found himself. A sudden memory resurfaced: he and Harry Crane in the basement of some dingy club waiting alongside a bunch of underage groupies for The Rolling Stones to appear and agree to rhapsodize about the taste of Heinz Baked Beans. His present circumstances were a definite improvement—he didn’t have to spend an evening with Harry Crane.

“Ready, lads?” Mal asked after Paul had finished cleaning himself up.

“Yeah, let’s do it,” Paul said, his voice steadier than before. He made eye contact with Don for a moment, then averted his gaze downwards. Don sensed his embarrassment and sympathized with him. He remembered having a panic attack of his own years ago, how helpless, undignified, and vulnerable he had felt. He could still remember the tightness in his chest, his heartbeat roaring in his ears, Faye's voice reaching him as if from far away. He hated thinking about it.

“So, how are we doing this?” Don asked, returning to the task at hand. “I’m guessing you don’t have any disguises on you. And we can’t just walk out of here.”

“Hey, wait a mo,” John said, looking at Don. “You’ve got a coat and hat. Why don’t I take off me glasses and wear your hat, and Paul can wear your coat with the collar up?”

Don looked down at the overcoat and fedora hat he was holding. He had forgotten in the commotion that he had been carrying them the whole time. Don looked at Mal questioningly.

“That’s probably the best we can do. You and I will walk in front, and John and Paul will crouch down behind us. I know a way out the back.”

Don handed over his coat and hat. The coat was slightly too big for Paul—it looked baggy on his narrower frame. John looked like a different person with no glasses and his long hair covered. He pulled the brim of the hat low on his brow and regarded himself in the mirror with a grin.

“N’yeah, see? We’re gonna scram, see?” John said in an old Hollywood mobster accent, eliciting a quiet chuckle from Paul.

“You look good, Johnny,” he said with a surprisingly skillful American accent and a slight smile.

“Let me make sure the coast is clear,” Mal said, cracking open the door. He peered into the hallway for a moment, then waved Don after him.

Mal and Don emerged into the empty hallway, John and Paul behind them. The buzz of conversation had quieted substantially, but muffled voices from the other room told him that there were plenty of people still lingering. The foursome set off down the hall away from the babble. They made a turn to the left without meeting anyone. Don was conscious of the pair close behind him, who remained silent apart from several whispers that he couldn’t decipher.

As they made another turn, they came upon a young photographer in a black turtleneck—the one who had been accompanying the loud-mouthed balding reporter who had accosted Don earlier. Don made eye contact with him only fleetingly as they passed. He saw a flicker of recognition pass over the photographer’s face. Don felt himself tense up and waited for the inevitable cry of “It’s McCartney and Lennon! Here they are!” and the flashing of bulbs.

Nothing came. An emergency exit door stood before them, only a few steps away. Then, suddenly: light, the sound of sirens and car horns, a chill breeze. They had made it.

They stood in a deserted alley below a fire escape. Paul straightened his hunched shoulders and took a deep breath of the spring air. His face had more color now, looked more alive. Don took the pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket and wordlessly offered one to the other three conspirators, who gratefully accepted.

“I thought that bloke had us pegged,” John said, handing Don his hat back and putting his glasses back on. “It was all I could do not to yell or burst out laughing.”

“Yeah, well I’m glad you didn’t,” Paul said, tendrils of smoke escaping his lips. John playfully made to punch his arm, then placed his hand on Paul’s shoulder.

“All right, Macca?” he asked, suddenly serious.

“Yeah, fine. Just needed the fresh air, y’know. Had a few too many, er, cups of tea,” Paul replied. Don saw Paul’s cigarette trembling slightly in his left hand.

Paul looked down for a moment and remembered he was still wearing Don’s coat. As he handed it over, he regarded Don carefully, as if actually perceiving him for the first time. He held out his hand, and it seemed to Don that Paul was attempting to overcome the remnants of his embarrassment.

“Thanks for the help, man,” he said, as Don took the proffered hand and shook it. “We probably couldn’t have made it without you. I’m sorry we had to drag you into all that. What’s your name, anyway?”

“Don. Good to meet you.”

“You don’t look like a reporter or a photographer, Donny,” John remarked, looking at Don with his bold and steady gaze.

“I’m in advertising,” Don said. “That’s why I’m here, actually.”

“Oh, shit, I’m sorry,” Paul said, looking genuinely apologetic. “You came here on actual business, and we fucked it all up. Well, I did.”

Don shook his head, blowing smoke out of the corner of his mouth.

“The guy who thinks he’s my rival didn’t get to meet you, and I did. I’d call that a success regardless of the circumstances.”

Paul and John exchanged glances and laughed.

“Do you have a card?” Paul asked. Don took a business card from his wallet and gave it to him.

“Donald Draper, Creative Director,” Paul said under his breath and paused for a moment. “Oh, I’ve heard of you!” he exclaimed. “They say you’re good, y’know.” Every trace of Paul’s embarrassment had disappeared from his demeanor.

“Really?” Don said, his eyebrows raised in surprise. He suspected Paul was simply flattering him. He looked over at John, who shrugged.

“I asked Derek to find out about the best ad agencies in New York. He asked around, and your name came up,” Paul said.

“That’s good to hear,” Don said. He hadn’t been expecting to actually speak to either John or Paul, let alone to talk business. Now that the golden opportunity had arisen, he balked. How does one talk about business with a person he has just helped save from potential public uproar, humiliation, and criminal conviction for the possession of illegal substances? Don hesitated for a moment, then decided that a forthright casual approach was best.

“How long are you in New York? If you’re not in a hurry, you can come by the office, and I can have our creative department put something together for you to see before you go,” Don said, sounding as though it was all the same to him whether they came by or not. In reality, he knew very well that having the Beatles as a client would be a huge coup for the agency, regardless of their financial potential. At the same time, Don couldn’t deny that he found himself becoming interested in these strange young men, without knowing why.

“I think we’re leaving quite early tomorrow morning, right, Mal?” Paul asked, looking over at their personal assistant, who had been quietly smoking off to the side and observing their conversation with a placidity and good humor that never seemed to leave him.

“Yeah, flight’s at 7.”

“We don’t have time right now—we’re supposed to be meeting some people for dinner soon, and then we have to get ready for _The Tonight Show_ ,” Paul said, chewing on his thumbnail. “We’ll be coming back this summer, though,” Paul said, and John nodded.

“Well, give me a call when you’re in town, and we’ll figure something out,” Don said, extending his hand to each of them. He shook Paul’s hand last. The younger man looked earnestly at Don.

“I know you could have chosen not to help us. It means a lot that you did,” he said quietly.

Don nodded, giving the three men one last look before he walked out to the street and hailed a cab.

*

That night, Don and Megan watched _The Tonight Show_ together in bed. Megan’s head rested on her husband’s shoulder. Their bedroom was dark, and the color television set flickered its captivating light on the walls. Don had told Megan nothing of the day’s unusual events. A part of him longed to tell her everything, to have the same connection that they had had in the first year of their marriage. At the same time, he was terrified of acknowledging the gulf that had opened up between them. Telling Megan about today would reopen the wound that had begun festering ever since she left SCDP to return to acting. And besides, the Beatles weren’t a sure thing yet. He didn’t want anyone to know about the encounter until a meeting had been set. He wanted to walk into the office and deliver the account into the other partners’ laps and claim a decisive victory.

Applause sounded through the television set, and Don looked up from the work on his lap. Megan sat up abruptly, making their bed creak.

“It’s the Beatles! Well, two of them, anyway. I didn’t know they were going to be on,” she said with interest, perking up from what had seemed to be a near slumber. “John looks so different now.”

Don looked at the two men on the screen and saw Paul and John, each wearing the same clothes he had seen them in earlier that day. Paul looked much improved, and Don listened as he answered Joe Garagiola’s question about the Beatles’ changing audience.

 _“When we first started we had leather jackets on, y’know. Little caps and big cowboy boots. But then we changed to suits, y’know..._ _And we lost a whole lot of fans. They all said, ‘You’ve gone ponched.’ They didn’t like it, you know, because we were all clean..._ _So we lost that crowd, but we gained all the ones that liked suits. It happens like that. That’s what keeps happening. And we lost a lot of people with_ Sgt. Pepper _, but I think we gained more.”_

The studio audience applauded. Paul gave a gracious smile, but Don perceived a mischievous twinkle in his eye. Don took a sip of his whiskey and realized that the self-assured, collected man he was watching on the screen in that moment was not, in fact, the same man he had seen back at the Americana. That man had been ashen, paralyzed with fear and nausea, had been vulnerable and embarrassed. This man was beautiful, lustrous, unfailingly composed, while remaining charmingly candid and down-to-earth. Don felt that he finally understood some of the Beatles’ appeal. Not only that, but he found himself feeling an unexpected kinship with that same young man, whose barriers against the outside world were both dazzlingly attractive and incredibly resilient.

Don thought that perhaps he would never see McCartney again, and regretted not getting his autograph for Sally.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! In the next chapter, Paul stirs things up at SCDP.


End file.
